Isuelt, My Isuelt
by Verok
Summary: Before Rosie Cotton, Samwise Gamgee had another love, a first love - in Minas Tirith, met after the completion of the Quest. To him she went without a name, so in his heart, Sam called her Isuelt. Yet he didn't know "Isuelt" was actually Eowyn.
1. A Name Long Forgotten

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt: Chapter One

A Name Long Forgotten

Rating: PG-13 (for intense themes, explicit scenes, violence, and etc.) May be increased to an R in the future.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance. A love triangle concerning Sam, Faramir and Eowyn, no slash. Frodo is also involved, to a certain extent. Also stars characters of the (complete) Fellowship, _including_ Boromir. Alternate Universe; the few months in the aftermath of the War of the Ring, taking place in Minas Tirith. 

Disclaimer: Neither Sam, nor Eowyn, nor Faramir, or anybody else, belongs to me. They are property of JRR Tolkien, the creator of Middle-Earth. 

A/N: If there are Sam or Frodo romances, they are always either slash or "hobbit" stories. And plus, I think Eowyn and Faramir deserve much more limelight than they get in the pages of Tolkien Fandom. I have only read ROTK once, and by that I mean skimmed through it once — I caught probably 20% of what happened, because at any rate I was not too happy with how the story was turning out. Anyway, if there are discrepancies between important facts of the book and this fic, please correct me in the review column. Flames, constructive criticism, whatever, will be allowed. Just one thing — I elongate the Fellowship's stay in Minas Tirith several months from how long it was described in the book, because there could be no way an in-depth love drama could have developed in the time span Tolkien allotted. And how should we describe this fic? The _real_ story behind Eowyn's marriage to Faramir, and why Sam Gamgee eventually went for Rosie Cotton. Expect weirdness from a mind who always thinks best at 2AM in the morning. Enjoy.

Also, another A/N: If you have not read the Return of the King (you've only seen the movie), and you don't want to know how everything turns out until you've seen the last movie, this fic contains possible spoilers.

And now, let the madness commence

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt

A Name Long Forgotten

Samwise Gamgee slowly paced the highest circle of battlements in the city of Minas Tirith, head turned toward the flame-colored spectacle that was the famed sunset on Ithilien. He sighed heavily. He didn't know why; yet he was sad, quite sad, even though he technically wasn't supposed to be sad anymore. There was no reason for him to be feeling like this. The Quest, the mountainous burden and the destruction of the Ring, was now behind his back, and perhaps — most likely — he was never again going to have any second Quest in the remainder of his lifetime. Still, he couldn't explain why he was unhappy, when he was supposed to be happy; it was a subtle, yet poignant sort of melancholia — that felt, at the same time, bitter, and sweet.

Perhaps Samwise Gamgee was mourning the passing of the Third Age. Not that he was a nostalgic who spent half of his life buried in lore books, like his master Frodo; he was just as straightforward as any hobbit could get, and if he would rather the world be a better place to live in, it was fine with him if he remained unhappy for the rest of his life. Of course, no matter how discontent he was ever going to be, his poor master would be even more discontentmostly, nowadays, Frodo spent his life indoors, cooped up in the boudoir in one of the topmost pavilions of the White City - and indeed, Ilúvatar knew what he really was doing in there. Sam had only checked upon him once every day since their honoring at the Field of Cormallen — he would have spent all his time with him, for he was his best friend, not just a master to him — but Frodo seemed inapt to have any sort of company. He was depressed, Sam could telldepressed in thinking that he, Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer, had actually failed the Quest in truth, not succeeded. The Ring still was destroyed, yes; but it was not destroyed the way he would have liked it. And he had a missing third finger, to prove it

Sam shook his head. _Mister Frodo thinks too much of it,_ he thought sullenly. _That's why he get plagued, every now and then, and shuts himself up, not wanting to talk or anything. But even if he did do wrong, it's all behind him now, and he isn't going to go through something like that, ever again. And I don't think the Past has the power, or the right, to make anybody guilty for all his days_then, after that thought had crossed his head, Sam made a mental note to save the useful idiom up in some unoccupied recess of his brain. Perhaps he could tell Frodo thatmaybe, tomorrow, during his regular visit. But he dearly hoped that his master would soon get over his isolation, and once again go about the city, in ease. 

The hobbit put a leg up, then another, and masterfully perched himself on one of the gigantic blocks of stone that formed the very edge of the battlements. Hoping to quit himself of his dampening thoughts, he turned his amber-eyed gaze to the setting sun in the West — and indeed, within a few moments, his mind was completely blank, except for the limpid feeling of bliss that had gently permeated into his entire body. Beautiful sights had never failed to alleviate his sores, whether physical or emotional they wereand this, the approaching of dusk upon Minas Tirith and Gondor's far-spreading plains, was nothing short of spectacular. Several wispy clouds, shaped like threads of smoke, hung high in the sky, tinted the soft pink so favorable in the frilly dresses of hobbit lasses. Here and there, patches of magnificent magenta and lavender permeated the pink — and where the sun showed through, a globe of orange many times bigger than it usually was throughout the day, the heavens were shot through with shafts of deep gold. And if Sam could train his eyes, hard, he fancied seeing tiny little wiggling lines that were flocks of birds in flight, and the slowly-moving specks that were the horseriders of Rohan upon the fields in their exercise; and he could also tell, if he were truly observant, if it were carrots or cabbages that grew within the many little grids that were the farming fields in the far distance, which had acquired a deep purple hue as opposed from the lush green they were during daybreak. It was only during such a beautiful time of the day that Sam could purely forget about his unexplainable misery, or his worried thoughts about his masterand indeed, without fail, during every seven-o'-clock Gondor had lived through for the past week, Samwise could be perched here, on the very same stone, without fail — staring far into the west while the gentle winds of the East tousled his curly gold locks. 

Gentle footsteps, accompanied by the silken rustle of a beaded garment, sounded from behind him — but Sam was too preoccupied with studying the sight in front of him to take any notice to it. He very rarely ran into anybody up here, for it was a private section of the topmost tier, reserved for the members of the Company of Nine that were quartered in its lofty suites. He felt a soft something at his feet, the slight swipe of a velvety fabric — and the ever-so-slight updraft at his side told him, momentarily, that another being had seated itself onto the battlement-block next to him.

"Sunsets on Ithilien are gorgeous, aren't they?" inquired a voice. Sam stirred slightly, though he still could not take his eyes off the landscape — but the voice — a female's - sounded very much fluid, brushed with music — and he likened it to the gentle coaxing of Legolas. Or, the bubbling of the stream of Nimrodel. 

"There is but no other word to describe it," he replied, almost absentmindedly — and he shifted again and cupped his chin with a hand. "At least, the Shire hasn't something this awfully pretty."

The voice of the being at his side rose in a laugh — and Sam could not help but feel jarred. It seemed almost as if a nightingale were cooing at his side, or a woodland pigeon — and briefly, he wondered if the women of Gondor truly had such lovely voices.

"You are one of the hobbits," said the voice, and another rustle of silk followed. "Are you not the famed Samwise Gamgee?"

At this Sam wheeled himself around on his seat, finally torn from the sunset — and his willpower failed to keep his jaw from dropping down, and remaining there. It was a damsel, just like the voice had predicted — and oh, she was even lovelier even than her voice. She had a long, lithe form — clothed entirely in a sweeping gown of frothing white lace — and a deluge of gold ripples, the sunlight glinting off it to have it seem like a halo, swirled and cascaded down without abandon. And never before had Sam seen such pale, flawless skin, such long and elegant limbs — nor such sheer beauty upon a face, save that of Arwen the Evenstar, as she turned to him with a divine smile.

Sam's heart was pounding in his ribcage, furiously, and he fancied his face was just about as puffed-up and violently colored as a sugar beet. He struggled hard to form coherent words, and indeed, he fancied it took more of his ability than resisting the fatal pull of the One Ring — and, predictably, all that escaped his lips were a gurgled jumble.

"So you are him!" cried the damsel, and she laughed again, sending wondrous shivers tingling up Sam's spine, a fleeting coldness making the hairs on his neck stand up. "I know your other companions, Merry and Pippin — and as for the Ringbearer himself, the great Frodo Baggins, he has darker hair, and a guanter build — " and at that she extended a long, slender finger and gestured playfully at Sam, "though, not as rosy-cheeked."

And upon hearing the remark, Sam turned even redder, making the damsel giggle once again in amusement — but as for the hobbit, he was at total loss for what to do. Indeed, it seemed as if he had died, received the Gift of Mortals from Ilúvatar, and had gone to Heaven — and unless it was a hallucination that sat in front of him, teasing him, well, angels never came down from the Halls of Mandos unto the Earth to flit about mere insignificant Halflings like him.

"Are you an elf?" he finally blurted out, and after the words escaped his mouth he pinched his lips shut in embarrassment. The damsel's smile, however, did not flag one bit, and she slowly lowered her pointed finger — which, Sam noticed with relish, extended from a gorgeously moulded hand, and a supple wrist — the rest of which was unseen, as it was cloaked and showered over by generous amounts of colorless silk taffeta, studded with gleaming white adamants. He leaned slighly closer, and took the opportunity of the pause to study the damsel's face — he felt so drawn into the eyes, especially, eyes which were a wondrous shimmering blue, just like Mister Frodo's — swirled with slivers of silver, veiled by thick lashes. The two black eyebrows raised themselves slightly and again there was a rustle as she moved a leg.

"You mistake me for an elf," she answered," but, as you will see, I do not have their supple ears. I am just a mortal woman." And, upon saying that, she raised two equally slender fingers, and parted one of her gleaming tresses, exposing a little, delicate round thing of a hearing instrument. 

"You can certainly pass for one, my Lady," Sam countered, and he turned his entire pudgy body to face her. "If you hadn't shown me your ears, I would not have been able to tell the difference."

The lady seemed slightly flattered by the praise — for her lovely cheeks became slightly tinged and she gave a small smile. "I think you are too generous in your saying of kind things, Master Gamgee," she said. "You have not truly looked upon the fairest of elves."

"I once saw the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien," Sam objected. "And, when I was back in Imladris — Rivendell," he quickly interposed, seeing the baffled look on the damsel's face, "I was acquainted with Arwen Undomiel herself, the Lady Evenstar, whom even those of her own kindred say is the living image of the legendary Luthien Tinuviel, fairest of all Children of Ilúvatar."

For some reason, though, upon hearing the Evenstar's name the smile from the damsel's face dropped — and now she looked sad, just like him, almost forlorn. "Yes," she breathed, and it barely came as a whisper to Sam's ears. "I am indeed in no comparison to the Lady Arwen, as many have saidand I think that is why" and, quite suddenly, her voice broke, and an ethereal sparkle slowly came into her eye — the sparkle of a pending tear.

"But, what are opinions?" Sam cried quickly. And he meant it. "Certainly not the ultimatum, or the truth. And I have my own opinions — and I think the Evenstar is not as fair as _you_, my Lady."

The laugh that sounded this time from the damsel's throat was of incredulity. "Why, Master Hobbit," she said, and she blushed even more, becoming even more beautiful in Sam's eyes — " you flatter me."

"That _is_ my opinion," he said firmly, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, I do not deny that the elves are very fair beings — but I think," and, the last words said in undertone, he leaned slightly towards her, "the most beautiful of all are the ones that are most fleeting."

"Fleeting?" echoed the damsel, and her eyes glinted again. "Why say you?"

Sam gave a long sigh. "The elves — the Quendi — their beauty is immortal, indestructible. It is in their blood, and it lives on, forever. There exists, however, beauty in other races as wellbut their beauty is all the more profound, and sorrowful as well —"

"For you know we are mortal and all of our beauty is to pass some day?" chimed in the damsel.

Sam turned to her. "Why — yes!" he acknowledged. "Mortal beauty, in a sense, seems even more beautiful than elven beauty, in some cases — for it is only temporary, and therefore we cherish it all the more while it lives out its brief years, and mourn for it all the more when it is no more. And the most beautiful of all" and there his eyes developed a faraway look, misted over with a darkness, and the damsel could not help but think the hobbit also beautiful for that one moment — "the most beautiful of all, the flowering tree. Or, more namely, the flowers on the tree. They blossom into life, unexpected, one day, and you cannot help but think them so delicate, so pure — and yet, there comes one harsh wind, or a rain, the very same day they are born — and their flowing masses of petals swirl away, to be gone, or landed into mire, and are dirtied. And nobodycares for them, their slight, subtle but quenched fragrance, and their withered leavesthey all look upon the blooming rose, whose petals last an eternity, and whose incense all can smell, but never once will they ever honor the former, who is in truth, more beautiful, more pureand always, the more wronged and neglected." Sam's voice sundered itself, for he could not continue any longer — and he had to do it, to restrain the wetness that was blurring up his eyes.

"You are very poetic," lilted the damsel, and her eyes, if possible, were shining brighter with even more unshed tears than Sam's. Then, in an effort to lighten the damp situation, she laughed — but it sounded almost forced, even for such a wondrous wont. "You can be counted among the great lore-masters of the elves."

"Nay, I am but nothing," Sam quickly said, but he could not help feel a tug at the corners of his mouth, forcing them to turn upward. "Master Frodo is much better than me, and even better than him is his uncle, Bilbo Baggins — but yes, yes" he trailed off. "I do sometimes get a burst of inspiration."

"And I shall remember that burst of inspiration that I have witnessed from you," she replied. "It was the most beautiful thingthat I have ever heard"

Sam's heart went pit-a-pat.

"You flatter _me_," he said.

"No!" retorted the damsel, and she lifted her chin, letting the breeze catch her hair in a delightful swirl of gold. "Poets are deserving of praise, even more so than pretty maidens, for their natural beauty is born of their talent, and mindnot their traits." Sam could not help but smile wider, and his cheeks resumed their burning.

"It has been very enjoyable talking to you, Master Gamgee," said the damsel, and she leapt off her high perch with agility that was all but elven-like. "Yet, I must go."

Faint panic seized Sam's heart, and he whirled around, curls jumping. "Shall I see you again, my Lady?" His voice halted the damsel's retreat. "At tonight's dinner banquet, perhaps?"

The golden-haired beauty turned around, and a final smile, the most beautiful of all that Sam had seen on her, graced her rosy lips. "Perhaps," she whispered, her breath coming in faint pulses. 

"And —" Sam raised an arm, before she could walk away any further, or turn around —"what is your name, my Lady?"

The smile dropped, and she shook her head, her face paling. "I do not have one," she said, simply. "I do not like mine, so now I go without a name, or a title."

Sam was extremely baffled, but his mind was in such a jumbled state that he could not ponder or concentrate about that one strange assertion. Then, he cast his memory back some, and immediately, a recollection surfaced to him. He remembered when he had been young, and his mother had given him, for his birthday, a child's fairytale book to read — and ever since it had become his most prized possession. Within its brightly illuminated pages, filled with pictures, he remembered a name — a name that had gripped him with a strange emotion ere he read it for the first time, without explanation. The book had said, in a footnote, that in some ancient and forgotten language, it had meant "One Who is Fair yet Disillusioned". It had sounded so forlorn, and so bitterly sweet on his tongue, and in his mind, that although the many stories of that book had faded away, quite some time ago — the name had remained. And, for the damsel, no name could have been more fitting.

"I have one for you," said Sam, and the damsel raised her magnificent head. "I shall call you Isuëlt."

The damsel looked at him, and Sam fancied he were sinking into those eyes of silver-dashed cerulean, so fathomless with glittering sorrow. "Isuëlt," she reverberated, and her lips twitched before curving, once more. "Isuëlt," she repeated, and Sam thought the name even more bitter and beautiful, rolling off her tongue in her pristine voice. "I like that name."

"Then I am all the more pleased, my LadyIsuëlt," said Sam. 

The damsel cocked her head and swished her arms. "Until we meet again, Master Gamgee —"

"Sam," the latter cut in.

" — Sam," the damsel breathed, and she nodded at him. 

"Tonight," Samwise offered. He had to see this lady, again, sometime. And the sooner it was, the better.

A slight wind whirled up, making several long strands of the damsel's hair float and flutter in an ethereal dance. "Perhaps," she whispered, and, saying no more, she turned, and slowly drifted away in her sparkling mantle of silk and adamant.

"Isuëlt," Sam slowly said, to himself, and he gazed after the angel, as she turned a corner on the battlements and disappeared. Such a perfect match, the name, and the damsel. "Isuëlt"

End Part ONe

Final A/N: Well? Never have I seen Sam get together with anybody besides Frodo (ooookay, really now), or Rosie. So I thought this pairing might make one hell of a possibility — natch. Reviews shall determine whether this goes on or not. At the request of my readersin a few days, this fic shall either be updated, or deleted off this website. Good day to you all. ~ Verok


	2. Let Us Dance

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt: Chapter Two

Let Us Dance

Rating: PG-13

A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed this story the first time around! And here is chapter two

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt

Let Us Dance

As usual, dinner banquets at Minas Tirith were no small affair. And then again, coupled with the event of the Quest's completion, and the presence of an entire hoard of honorary guests from all corners of Middle-Earth — each night was no short of some party spectacle. Sam could not help but be reminded of Bilbo Baggin's lavish birthday gatherings, as he wandered about the seas of crowds in the torchlit courtyard where tonight's ensemble was to be held — perhaps even Bilbo the old hobbit couldn't throw a feast and a dance as ostentatious as this. But, presumably, there was the Royal Treasury of Gondor, funding all these festivities.

The Royal Treasury of Gondor. That reminded him. Sam lifted his head and turned about to gaze upon the far side of the courtyard — where the King Elessar stood. He looked just like his predecessor, Isildur, tall and atrociously handsome in his winged crown and lavish purple robes — and of course, he would always be surrounded by a swarming knot of young damsels, wherever he went. Arwen had not shown up yet tonight — though, without fail, as soon as she had all but placed a foot within any room or courtyard Aragorn stood in, his admirers would scatter like confetti set to the wind. But if Arwen decided not to show up, they would always be hoarding him, one way or another

Every single one of those damsels that revolved around the Dunedain, Sam admitted to himself, were lovely. Great beauties of Gondor, in fact — no doubt the court ladies and palace girls of the White City. Or, there were also the degenerate type of married noblewomen, still young and looking, seeking a secret fling while their poor husbands were not looking. But, he thoughtno oneno onecame close to his Isuëlt.

They were but the coarse pansies and daffodils — bright-looking, but definitely unrefined. Even the more decent ones were only no better than primroses and peonies — fragrant, and especially appeasingbut still, only good for being flashy.

His Isuëlt was the white blossom upon a bare gray branch — small, sprinkled with crystalline drops of dew, only the slightest traces of blush gracing its paper-delicate petals. The blossom would be lonely, toothe only one upon the treeand it would be the first one to be blown away, by the breeze, and by Time.

Yeshow cruelyet bitter, and sweetwas this world

And the hobbit felt something stab at his two eyes. A only half-concealed sob wrung itself from his throat.

"Yo! Sam!"

Sam gasped and jumped perhaps a yard into the air as two fingers jabbed him sharply in the back. He feared tremendously that he had been caught off guard, acting, as in one of his lesser-known personalities, very much brooding and erratic. But, as it turned out, it had only been Merry and Pippin — both monstrously tall from excessive doses of entdraught — and as a wild Brandybuck and Took in a pair went, they were totally oblivious to everything except the fact that they breathed, saw, heard, and were standing in front of another flaxen-haired Halfling. 

"You're quite early down to dinner, today!" said Pippin, in his spunky Tookland lilt.

"And what makes you two so early today as well?" muttered Sam curtly in reply, unaware of the fact that his response came as if Pippin had snubbed him quite rudely, not given him a jovial hello.

"Eur" the latter's smile disappeared, and he slowly scooted over to Merry, who also was confused on Sam's behalf. A pause ensued, as the pair and the other simply stared at each other, unsure of what to say.

"Well, you know usget down here early to assess the food situation, heh," said Merry, attempting to laugh. Then, just as quickly as his forced nature had taken on, it had dropped off, and he pouted. "And what is the matter with you, Sam? I didn't know it was in your nature to be carping like this."

Sam only snorted. "You've never been to Mordor," was all he said; and with that he turned tail immediately and dashed off. Merry and Pippin could only gawk at him.

"Pip?" quavered Merry, in a faint voice. "What's gotten into that Gamgee?"

Pippin licked his lips nervously, then bit them. "Dunno," he said, slowly. "Probably Sam's already answered our question for us."

Merry raised both of his eyebrows, and turned to regard his companion.

Sam gasped and skidded to a halt at an immense marble pillar at the extreme opposite of the large banquet area, clutching the stitch in his chest from sidling and slipping in between moving things twice his height and girth. Indeed, even if he was to be honest, and a bit more civil, he could not have given Merry a straightforward reply. He had never snapped like that in front of his friends before, ever. Not even during their 8-month trip on foot from Hobbiton, all the way to Bree, and then Rivendell, and then from Moria to their sundering at Amon Hen. And, not even after they had reunited, at the Field of Cornmallen. Only tonight had he ever done something like this. He was probably psyched, then. 

And very much psyched, too.

Sam expelled a great breath of air from his lungs with a _phoooo_ and shifted slightly to peer around his hiding place. He quickly scanned the large throngs of milling people — squinting, praying, hoping

Ahthere she was.

Isuëlt stood under a very pretty wood trellis with overhanging vines, perhaps a few hundred yards away from him — stock still and separated from the crowd, like Sam himself was. She still wore the white mantle she had on earlier at the scene of the sunset — rendering her to glow amongst all the other dull partygoers, like a pale stone glinting out of the mud of the riverbed it had gotten sunk into. She seemed to bright, so pureoh, forget Eru, she was shining on her very own.

Almost stupidly, Sam stumbled out and ran towards her, several times nearly tripping over his own large hobbit feet, other times narrowly avoiding nasty collisions with others (always accompanied by the usual "Watch where you're going, little master!"). Sam figured he looked a spectacle when he finally reached her, and he was ashamed of it; beads of sweat were already starting to form on his forehead from exertion, and his cheeks burnt.

Isuëlt had been standing in some sort of a reverie, staring emptily at the candlelit space in front of her. When Sam had arrived, plodding, she still had not turned around — she was apparently lost in her own delusional world.

"Isuëlt!" cried Sam, panting heavily.

Isuëlt still didn't look around. Sam, perplexed, plodded up behind her — and he was greeted by a both pleasant and shocking surprise, for Isuëlt seemed to have some sort of wondrous fragrance that emancipated out of her slight, silk-swathed form. Instead of bothering her, he decided to look towards where his damsel was also gazing, curious and intent on finding the thing that so utterly engrossed her that she could not even hear somebody calling her name. 

When his eyes fell upon the sight, his entire chest seemed frozen instantaneously in ice, and his heart had stopped beating. It was Aragorn.

Just as suddenly as he was stunned, a burning began to creep up into his ribcage — starting slowly at first, but then totally consuming him. It felt like anger to Sam — but, perhaps, it was even more profound than anger. It was jealousywas it not?

"You know," he said, and he swallowed loudly. "Stri — the King Elessar — is already engaged to somebody."

A soft sigh escaped Isuëlt's lips, which were slightly parted.

"I know."

It was Sam's turn to sigh, but for him, it came out to be more of a shuddering rasp, than the faint breath that breezed from the damsel. He was about to seize a fistful of Isuëlt's dress, when he realized that it was both indecent, and shameful for a pair of dirty, fat fieldworker's hands like his to touch such shimmering, white fabric. So, instead, he gingerly inched forward and pinched a corner of her sleeve between two fingers, and shook that instead.

Finally, Isuëlt turned around — and she smiled at him. It was a sad, wistful smile — and, again what Sam's eyes saw made his heart cease pulsing — but this time, not with anger, or jealousy, butrapture.

"Would you like to dance?" asked Isuëlt, so softly it seemed the murmur of a gentle sea zephyr upon a sweeping green turf.

Sam's jaw dropped, and he most certainly had forgot about it there. In that moment, he struggled to get a hold on himself; besieged by the shock of being asked to the dance floor by a lady, and his favorite at that — and, even more, he was bewildered of Isuëlt's erratic behavior. First she had been fantasizing about the King Elessar, and seconds afterward she turned around and asked him out to dance?

He tried to talk, but could only blubber.

Isuëlt burst into a laugh, so clear and ringing of mithril and starlight that those who stood near them turned around to gawk in wonder. 

"What language are you trying to speak?" she cried, in between desperate peals of laughter. "Entish?"

Sam still hung in shock for a moment, before he snapped out a breif "-oh!", and let his face succumb to a splitting grin. He began laughing himself. The pair were so loud in their hysterics that Aragorn himself, who was standing perhaps a few tens of yards off, and his entire following of female admirers, also turned to look at them.

"Ohoh dear Eru" Isuëlt managed to choke out, as her laughs gradually subsided to giggles, then to snorts. "We were acting a bit too silly to be in society a moment ago, now, weren't we?"

"Who cares about society?!" retorted Sam, waving his hands wildly in the air. He didn't even know what he was talking about; he had spoken that on some sort of weird, sudden impulse — but to Isuëlt, he spoke perfect sense. She laughed again.

"Yes, you are right," she chimed. "Who cares about society, and class acts? If I were aware of society, I would not have even dared to offer you a dance. I could care no less — and, Master Gamgee, you still have not given me an answer."

Sam stopped laughing, and he looked up at Isuëlt's mesmerizing face. They were now quite close to each other, and the damsel's long golden strands ticked the crown of his head.

"Of course I would like a dance," he breathed, his eyes trained upon hers. "That would bevery nice."

Samwise Gamgee had never imagined such utter bliss before, to be frank with himself. It was better than romping through cornfields and chasing after his crop-lifting friends, better than eating a bowl full of strawberries buried under a trembling mountain of fluffy, freshly-whipped cream, why — even better than watching the pink-streaked sunsets on Ithilien. To him, what he was going through now could only be described one way — pure heaven. And it was pure heaven, dancing with the wondrous golden-haired angel that he had met, by accident — or by the Hand of Fate, he thought — upon the lofty limestone battlements of Minas Tirith. It was still too early for dinner to commence, and yet the Gondorian orchestra of fifty-some were already energetically winding out dancing numbers — and so, he, Sam the Hobbit of the Shire, and Isuëlt the Maiden of Ithilien, danced, danced and danced, whirling, prancing, waltzing, hurtling, locked fast in each other's arms. Throughout all of the music, their eyes never strayed from each other — and Sam felt as if he were enshrouded in some sort of incredible dream-world, the rainbow lights of candles and stars streaking in the background in flywheels about them, ripples of white adamant-studded silk wrapped around his body — and the glowing gold of cascading tresses playing about with his own sandy curls, only adding to the intimacy. This was far, far different from romping around with the lasses of the Shire at the meager birthday gatherings of old hobbits, far from the frantic foot-stomping at many a Michael Delving dancing competition and carnival. For now, he was lost in his own world — his, and his lovely partner's world — and they were the only ones in that fantastical world.

Sam did not see Merry and Pippin, both staring at him with strange expressions upon their faces, as they stood upon chairs and gazed upon the teeming dance floor. Sam did not see his other friends, the Prince Legolas Greenleaf, who had stopped in the middle of his chatting to also look at the two of them, or Gimli the Dwarf, who had been watching them for quite some time already. And Prince Boromir, the Steward of Gondor, also saw them — and although Sam was still oblivious, he had been walking about, around and around the edges of the dance floor, gray irises trained upon them.

Andoh. Even Aragorn the Ranger, King of Gondor, Elessar Telcontar, felt a strange something tug upon him. He looked up, and saw his little hobbit friend, go whirling past in a swirl of white and gold — arms wrapped tightly upon the slender waist of a lady. And, as if for the first time in his life, Aragorn noticed that the lady was a beauty — a great beauty — and, in that moment, despite all his training of decency and honor, and fidelity to his pledges, he perceived that damsel of white and gold to be even more beautiful than the Lady Arwen. And she was so beautiful, he felt something wrench sharply on his heart, and his breath froze, midway down his throat, making his eyes sear momentarily with an unexplainable glare. The arm that had been raised previously in a salute fell down limp to his side, and swayed some before stopping, unnoticed.

Sam saw none of this. And, indeed, it was a good thing that he saw nothing. Eru only would have known what was to follow, if his eyes did ever fall upon such sights.

"Isuëlt," he could only say, and a breathtaking smile lit upon his round, rosy-cheeked face. "My angel, my only"

Isuëlt's eyes flashed briefly upon hearing such words from somebody's lips — and she smiled down upon the awed hobbit, in return. Varda could not have looked more beautiful, or, even, as beautiful, and both compelling and incredible, in that one moment, that one heartbeat, which remained frozen in time forever in Sam's heart, ere from that instant on. 

"My dear hobbit," she whispered back. "Sam."

End Part Two

Final A/N: Things are kind of annoying with school — lotsa stuff to doso, you must be kind to me, and allow one-two weeks minimum for the next update. But, if you are really so frantic to read the next installment, make your thoughts known in the review column and I shall try my utmost to make haste. Until later, Kudos! ~ Verok.


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